


Of All the Gin Joints in All the Towns

by yourcrookedheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in a Female Vessel (Supernatural), Cunnilingus, First Time, Genderfluid Character, Light Angst, Multi, Season/Series 04, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29384220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourcrookedheart/pseuds/yourcrookedheart
Summary: "You know," Dean says. "This is the first time I’m bringing home a girl since I got back.""I am not a girl," Castiel says.*Or; Vanity is a sin. Castiel’s new vessel just happens to be a hot girl.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	Of All the Gin Joints in All the Towns

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is me returning to one of my oldest fandoms. I don’t usually enjoy writing for popular pairings and this is quite literally the most popular pairing on AO3, but it turned out I did want to add a little something. 
> 
> And thus I offer you 5k of Castiel in a female vessel, complete with confusing angel gender politics. There was a lot of waffling over pronouns as I was writing this story, far more than I’m sure the writers have ever thought about this topic. I won’t write an essay here because I’d like to leave most of it up to the reader, but if you’d like some information prior to reading, all you need to know is Castiel uses both male and female pronouns to refer to him/herself in this fic. Do with that as you wish. I am always happy to discuss my fics, but I kindly ask you to take any and all arguments elsewhere.
> 
> This is mostly canon compliant up until 4x18 The Monster at the End of This Book. Some liberties were taken with the lore, but no more liberties than the show takes on a regular basis.
> 
> Enjoy!

The vessel’s name is Katherine Bythell. She is the daughter of a pastor of a Baptist Church in Sikeston, Missouri, and to her friends she is Katy or, on occasion, Kat. She is closer to her father than she is to her mother, an austere, reserved woman with more fondness for her Miniature Schnauzer than for her husband and daughter. Each year, the family celebrates Christmas with the local parish, during which Katy distributes soup to parishioners and charms old ladies into forgetting their loneliness for one day.

When Castiel calls upon her, Katy falls to her knees crying.

In truth, there is little rationale as to why angels select the vessels they do. The vessel must be devout, naturally, enough so to accept the existence of angels when one addresses them. It is considered more prudent to choose the young rather than the old, for practical reasons. The rest of the process is arbitrary. Castiel certainly spent no more time observing Jimmy Novak than was necessary to establish Jimmy was healthy, reverent and willing. That was all.

With time, Castiel has come to realize that humans are not quite as indifferent to the appearance of their vessels as angels are. Jimmy is white, male, entirely conventional in a way that allows for an angel to remain unobserved when necessary. It would be easy to chalk it up to a strategic move, but really it was closer to sheer fortuity—guided, Castiel likes to believe, by God’s own hand.

Katy is a devout woman and assuredly willing, but by human standards, Castiel doubts she is considered ordinary. Of course, Castiel’s point of reference for what constitutes beauty in humans is Dean and Sam, hardly representative of the opinions of over seven billion people. Still.

Where Jimmy’s hair is dark brown, Katy’s hair is a warm golden blonde. Her eyes are blue, her lips full with the gentle curve of a cupid’s bow. All features of an attractive woman according to whatever standards humanity has established in this century. More than that, beyond the shape of her nose and the arch of her eyebrows, she looks kind. Unthreatening. It is the only reason why Castiel chooses her over hundreds of others.

Vanity is a sin. To indulge in vanity over the shape of one’s vessel, well. That might be considered cardinal under the laws of Heaven.

*

There are creations of humanity that have surprised Castiel in their elegance and beauty. He knows Uriel isn’t the only angel who believes Earth to be a lost cause, crude and artless, populated by humans who are little more developed than an intelligent gadfly. Then again, Uriel was wrong about a great many things. There is charm in the human minutiae. Little metal boxes that allow humans to communicate with each other, eclectic melodies that spill out of stores, two teenage girls sharing a drink on a crowded street. Unrefined it may be, and yet Castiel finds himself intrigued.

He wonders if this was how it started for Anna. To demean their Heavenly Father’s creation is blasphemy, cause for eternity spent in a cage like Lucifer. To worship His work over Heaven itself is likewise considered heresy, punishable by death. _Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way._ Castiel had always liked Matthew.

Yet while there may be beauty to be found on Earth, bars in Mid-Western America are not a shining example. Thankfully he isn’t here for the ambience of the place.

It’s a busy night. Days before Christmas, loud-mouthed, beer-bellied humans packed together like sardines in a tin. The TV above the bar displays some type of sports game that rouses the men’s spirits. Not all of them root for the same team. Before the night is over, there will be bloodshed in this dime-a-dozen bar along the freeway, though for now their passion unites them.

Surprisingly, there is a vacant spot left at the bar. A woman in a rhinestone jacket is headed in the same direction, but it’s all too easy to brush past her and plant the suggestion in her mind for her to turn around, back towards the table in the back where her friends remain. Castiel slides into the empty seat. Katy’s form is shorter than Jimmy’s, the tips of her toes barely reaching the floor. He adjusts his position to something more comfortable and ignores the overly familiar bartender, turning to Dean instead.

A long blink, and then Dean’s lips curl upwards. “Can I get you to smile if I buy you a drink?”

Castiel doesn’t drink. He has no need for it. “Hello Dean,” he says. “It’s me.”

“Think I’d remember a face like that, sweetheart.” Dean’s smile doesn’t waver. His tone is light even as his hand veers towards the inside pocket of his jacket, where he carries a combat knife and a flask of holy water.

“It’s me. Castiel.”

Dean jerks back, spilling beer over his sleeve. “Shit. What?” His gaze veers wildly between Castiel and the beer dripping onto the floor. “What happened to the other guy?”

The presumptuous bartender attempts to intervene. Castiel ignores him. “Jimmy was unavailable.”

“He kicked you to the curb huh. Jesus, warn a guy, would you.”

Castiel ignores the profanity. He finds it barely registers anymore. “Being a vessel has been strenuous for Jimmy, and he reminded me it’s Christmas. In any event, I won’t be staying long.”

He doesn’t expect Dean to glower at that, but then it’s exceedingly difficult to gauge Dean’s moods. For an angel proficient in every language known to mankind and many other species besides, human emotions remain a mystery. “You go AWOL for weeks, you show up out of the blue looking like some Penthouse Pet, and then, what, it’s back up the stairway? Gotta say, I’m starting to feel a little like the sidepiece here. Where were you, man?”

“I was—occupied.” Dean starts to roll his eyes. “I told you. My sympathies are being questioned. I can no longer simply go when and where I wish to.”

“You got benched?”

“If you’re asking whether I was demoted… in a sense, yes.” Only in the sense that ‘demoted’ would be considered an understatement. Mere months ago, Castiel was one of the youngest generals in the garrison. It will take epochs to regain the trust of his fellow angels, if he can ever manage to. If the Apocalypse doesn’t mark the end of Heaven as well as Hell.

He is under no illusions that the only reason he’s still allowed on Earth at all is because Dean trusts him more than he mistrusts Uriel and Zachariah, and Dean’s compliance is vital to the plan.

“Did they send you?” Dean asks.

“No,” Castiel lies. “We need to talk. But not here.”

To his credit, Dean barely puts up a fight. He throws a few bills on the bar, shrugging into his jacket. “Motel’s not far from here. Sam’ll be out for a while,” he says, leading Castiel through the thrum of patrons.

The woman in the rhinestone jacket scowls at them as they pass her on the way to the door. As a trial run, Castiel tries on Katy’s smile. Her scowl only intensifies.

*

The car radio plays softly in the background, softer than when Dean drives on his own, or when he and Sam have run out of things to talk about. A frenzied rhythm and pleading vocals— _try to love you baby but you push me away_ —as Dean taps the steering wheel to the song. All music on Earth used to sound the same to Castiel, comprising only a fraction of sounds that could be perceived in Heaven, but he is starting to recognize patterns. There is a jagged pulse to this particular piece that is both pleasant and oddly familiar, a beating heart that demands to be played aloud.

“Zep fan?”

Castiel realizes he has been measuring the pulse by tapping fingers onto the leather seat.

“It’s…” He weighs his words. “Agreeable,” he says.

“ _Agreeable?_ ” Consternation drips from Dean’s tone. “Now that’s blasphemy.”

“You enjoy this music.”

Dean hums and tips his head back. His attention doesn’t waver from the road, but his limbs relax in counterpoint to the frenetic music. By contrast, Castiel’s skin feels tight. Although any vessel would feel like constraint compared to an angel’s true form, everything about Jimmy is practical, sensible. The body and attire of a man resigned to an amiable if ordinary existence.

Without realizing it, Castiel has grown used to Jimmy’s vessel. Such a thing isn’t uncommon, barely even frowned upon by traditionalists such as Uriel. Even upon a vessel’s expiry, some angels will search for a vessel that resembles their previous form. The connection breeds familiarity. Dangerous if not curtailed, but not inherently so. Not unorthodox at all to stare at the reflection in the side window and expect Jimmy’s innoxious eyes and rigid jaw to glance back.

Katy may be as devout as Jimmy is, but she is also ten years younger and craving life. Eyes a similar blue, but the blue of a rapid instead of an estuary. Her long nails resting against black tights are painted a festive copper color, matching the charm bracelet that was a gift from her first boyfriend. The boots she wears have heels in an attempt to contend with her small stature, though they’re modest enough to escape reproach from her family. The length of her skirt is a similar compromise. No matter how often it is pushed back, blonde wisps of hair keep falling in front of her vision.

Castiel took for granted the liberty that Jimmy Novak’s suit provided. Katy’s brown leather jacket is purely decorative, and restrictive to boot. Angels don’t feel pain inflicted on their vessels, but Castiel registers the cold in a distant sort of way, as something happening to Katy’s body and filtered through opaque fog. Goosebumps prickle along Katy’s arms, beneath the sleeves of the jacket. The sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant.

In Jimmy’s body, Castiel could disappear. Acclimatize. He can’t imagine ever not being aware of the shape and texture of Katy Bythell’s.

“So, what, you guys don’t celebrate Christmas upstairs?” Dean asks, breaking the silence, his eyes still on the dark road. Headlights from the occasional oncoming traffic bathe the inside of the car and Dean’s profile in intermittent swells of white light.

“Heaven has no use for holidays. And Jesus Christ was not born on the day humans celebrate Christmas.”

Dean fixes him with a blank-eyed stare, then shakes his head. “Okay, sure.”

Small talk. One more language Castiel was never taught. “You and Sam are here for a case,” he says instead, as if he wasn’t sent down here after a full report and detailed instructions by Zachariah.

“We’re hunting a Liderc. Killed three families already.”

“Lidercs are extinct.”

Dean glances sideways. Another car passes by, illuminating the gold within the green of his eyes. “Well we’re hunting one right now, so clearly you need to update your info.”

“The creature you are hunting is called a Latawiec. Its nest is an abandoned warehouse near the town center. Perhaps it’s you who should update your info.”

The song from earlier has shifted into another. A female voice croons _Maria_ within the beat of silence. “Just so you know,” Dean says, “that attitude doesn’t get more charming all of a sudden just ‘cause you got boobs now.”

A laugh escapes Castiel. In Katy’s body, Katy’s voice, it sounds high and affected, more deliberate than an involuntary reaction.

“Fuckin’ angels,” Dean says, but he’s smiling too, a smug slant to his mouth as the car chases the dark road, and Castiel digs Katy’s nails into the leather seats to stop them from feeling out the shape of the song.

*

The motel is dark when Dean turns the car onto the parking lot. Even the neon sign advertising vacancies and cable TV has abandoned its mission, fading in and out of existence before extinguishing entirely, leaving only the headlights and a smattering of stars overhead. Dean parks the car, and then there is only the stars and silence.

“You know,” Dean says. “This is the first time I’m bringing home a girl since I got back.”

“I am not a girl,” Castiel says, unsure why it matters. He is no more a woman in Katy’s vessel than he is a man in Jimmy’s.

Dean’s gaze casts sideways and lingers, though what he sees there is a mystery. In the dark, his human eyes must barely be able to identify silhouettes and shadows. Even if Castiel could ever get used to this body, he imagines that indecipherable gaze would bring him right back to awareness. With the engine off, cold air seeps in through the cracks of the car with no heat to ward it off, and Castiel fights Katy’s body’s urge to shiver.

“I guess,” Dean says, before snapping out of whatever has him occupied and stepping out of the car.

Instead of following his example, Castiel appears into the room at the moment Dean opens the door.

“Show-off,” Dean gripes, good-naturedly. He throws the keys on the table, his jacket onto the bed on the right, before getting a bottle from the minibar—a familiar routine. “Right, let’s hear it. You didn’t come down here to kick back with a sixer and some pay-per-view. This is about Sam, isn’t it?” Dean asks.

“You promised me you would stop him.”

Dean pauses mid-swallow. “I did. He told me he’d quit.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, and that, at least, is not a lie. “It appears he didn’t.”

Dean curses, a low and emphatic string of words of which Castiel only recognizes approximately two out of ten, punctuated with a heartfelt “—son of a _bitch_.” Reaching for the duffel bag on the table, he rifles through the array of guns and knives. “It’s that demon bitch. I swear, once I get my hands on her…” The rest of the sentence remains unfinished, evoking in the silence the image of a bleeding Alastair, tied to a devil’s trap.

Only when Castiel puts a hand on Dean’s wrist does he pause, tearing his eyes away from the demon knife in his white-knuckled fist to stare at the point of contact, then up to meet Castiel’s gaze. “If you rush in now, you will lose your brother forever.” The barely hidden desperation in Dean’s eyes, beneath the tight coil of anger, pulls at something uncomfortable and unfamiliar in Castiel. He fears it may be guilt. “Listen to me. Killing Ruby will not save him.” Dean balks at this, and Castiel continues before they devolve into argument, instead offering him Zachariah’s missive. “It’s not too late.” It is. “Sam can yet be brought back from the edge. You can save him.” He can’t, not if Heaven has anything to say about it. And the greatest lie of all, “I am trying to help you, Dean.”

Dean’s grip slackens, the knife clattering to the table. “I know,” he acquiesces. “I think you’re probably the only one who is.”

The guilt, for that’s what it is, tastes like ash in Castiel’s mouth. He can’t banish the memory of Anna’s knowing eyes under the light of a street lamp, something like pity or maybe recognition in her voice as she told him it would only get worse. 

“You will not fail,” he says. He likes the way it sounds in Katy’s voice, genuine yet soft. Jimmy’s tone is too rough to be soothing, but for all of Katy’s youthful energy, it’s her kindness that shines through.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Dean’s eyes lower to the table, and Castiel realizes he still has his hand on Dean’s wrist. Katy’s fingers appear pale against the tanned skin.

He pulls back, too abruptly to escape the question in Dean’s gaze. Katy’s heels feel high all of a sudden as he tries to step away. 

“Hey, no, it’s fine,” Dean says.

“I do actually remember your lectures on personal space.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean’s expression is inscrutable. It would be easy to slip into his mind and tease apart the threads of his thoughts, but that is a boundary he knows Dean would never forgive him for crossing. Even if he could decipher the whims and contradictions, Castiel doubts he would be any closer to understanding Dean. “You don’t usually look like this.”

The demon knife rests on the table, forgotten. “Like what?”

In lieu of a reply, Dean wraps his hand into the front of Katy’s leather jacket. “This one’s got better taste than the other guy.”

“Katy,” Castiel says. “Her name is Katy. Katherine.”

He isn’t sure if Dean even hears him. “Body like that, wasted on goody-two-shoes Christian girls.” Dean shakes his head in mourning, even as his roving eyes trail over Katy’s figure. It’s warmer in the motel room than it was in the car, comfortable even, but goosebumps still erupt across Castiel’s—Katy’s—arms. It appears Dean has given up on the concept of personal space entirely, and Castiel is not so new to humanity that he doesn’t understand what is happening here. Finally, an expression in Dean’s eyes that he can read, and promptly wishes he couldn’t.

Dean releases his grip on Katy’s jacket only to lift it towards the golden cross at her neck—”how original”—and then her mouth. His thumb comes away smudged pink. “Bold for a Christian girl.”

Katy’s lips prickle where Dean’s touch has been. Castiel has done all he came here to do, executed Zachariah’s orders if not to the letter then at least in spirit. All that is left to do is leave, fly up to Heaven to report back and hope he can regain some measure of his superiors’ favor.

“Don’t bail on me now,” Dean says as if he too can read minds. “Or I will kill your ass next time I see you.”

“So you’ve tried before. I seem to remember it didn’t work then.”

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Maybe, but see—” He is close enough that his breath is a whisper against Katy’s cheek. “I’m pretty resourceful. And I’m picking up all kinds of new tricks.” Castiel is expecting the press of his lips, but instead Dean walks the both of them backwards, hands hot and insistent even over layers of clothing. He would be no match if Castiel refused to budge, but for reasons he will undoubtedly agonize over later, Castiel lets himself be moved until his back hits the wall, until he’s caged in by a body that suddenly seems substantive.

In Heaven, Castiel’s form is a thousand feet tall, with three sets of wings and heads to match. Here, in a motel room off Route 51, Dean runs his hand beneath Katy’s jacket to clutch at her hip, and Castiel would risk the wrath of Michael himself if it meant staying in this small, mortal body.

“Your brother will be back soon,” Castiel hears Katy’s voice say, embarrassingly breathless. “We shouldn’t—” But there are no words for the rest of that sentence.

“Don’t you think this whole Mormon angel crap is getting a little tired,” Dean murmurs as his lips trail fiery across Katy’s ear.

And then he does kiss Castiel, or Katy, as if the difference even matters when it’s Castiel who feels the heat of his lips. It turns out Dean kisses the way he fights, which is anything but a surprise when Castiel really thinks about it. Quick, capricious and relentless, all offense but with a teasing sidestep when Castiel chases him. Like this, Katy’s body, her voice, the jacket and impractical shoes are as familiar as Jimmy’s vessel was. Her body remembers these movements. It’s easier than expected to slip into the intuition that Katy’s vessel provides, and when Dean’s teeth sink into her bottom lip, Castiel copies the movement until Dean groans and buries his face beneath Castiel’s jaw. “Not bad for a virgin,” Dean murmurs, mouthing the words against the delicate skin there. “Or a Christian girl.”

_I am not a girl_. The words are there on Castiel’s tongue, a terse repetition—not male, not female, not human. Castiel existed long before God created any of those concepts. Dean knows this.

And yet. Castiel understands Dean’s desire to reduce the world to a series of monochromes, his qualms when things leap off the page in full technicolor. Blood spills easier when it’s a monster at the end of your blade; the apocalypse is inevitable because God willed it so; and for this night, Castiel may as well be a pastor’s daughter from Sikeston, Missouri, or any other girl that leaves a little of herself behind in Dean’s memories.

Dean’s fingers trail down Castiel’s chest with covetous eyes in pursuit, eyes that don’t see an angel or a monster, but an attractive woman in a too-thin jacket who wants.

Castiel does. _She_ does.

“I am… what was it that you said?” Dean’s hand slides up Castiel’s leg, inching beneath the green lace skirt. Castiel struggles to retain her train of thought. “Picking up all kinds of new tricks.”

Dean bites at Castiel’s jaw. The sharp sting of teeth is followed by a kiss that is anything but soothing. “Okay, wise-ass. Keep up then,” Dean says, before digging his fingers into the back of her thigh and lifting it to wrap around his hip. The coordination of it seems as if it must be challenging for humans, especially when Dean lifts Castiel’s other leg as well until she is held up only by the wall and the weight of Dean’s body. If this were a fight, she would have no leverage in this position, but she can be a tactician. She can slide her hands into Dean’s hair, rake her nails down his neck until his kisses falter; she can play the same game of evasion as he does and make him chase her mouth for a change; and if she pushes her shoulders into the wall and cants her hips into his body, she can make his rough voice take her Father’s name in vain.

Human bodies are so limited. One head, two arms and two legs, barely enough to survive eighty meager years, and yet it feels as if Dean is everywhere. He releases his grip on one thigh to slide his hand under Katy’s blouse, into her blue lace bra—one point of contact that resonates everywhere, fanning a fire that starts from the tips of his calloused fingers to the nerves between her legs. An unstoppable surge, out of her hands. 

“I want—” Dean doesn’t bother finishing his sentence, whispered hotly in between dragging kisses. She doesn’t blame him; _want_ is a nebulous word. There are no words in any human language for all that Castiel wants.

The wall at her back is a single point of solidity when Dean sinks down onto his knees, barely spending a moment to look up before lifting Katy’s skirt. There is a question in that single locked gaze she silently begs him not to ask. “Yeah,” he says, not a question but an agreement, and licks his lips. Castiel’s mouth feels parched. Impossible. Angels don’t get thirsty. Dean presses his damp lips to the inside of her thigh, and the dryness in her throat becomes a desert. Even through the tights, his breath feels hot on her skin.

Wordlessly, he eases the tights down her hips, helps her slide out of them, then wastes no time. His mouth moves up her leg in increments, stubble sandpaper-rough, up to the crease of her thigh. Stops. His eyes flick up again.

_Don_ _’t ask_ , she wills him.

He spreads her legs. Presses his lips in the space between her thighs, over the thin fabric, and breathes out. She twists her hand in his hair, pushing or pulling, she can barely tell anymore, and drags a pained hiss out of him. “Jesus,” he swears. “On a scale of one to the goddamn apocalypse, this is the Fall of Babylon of bad ideas.” Because he hasn’t moved, she can feel the rumble of his words against her. This time, she pulls deliberately.

“You started it,” she says, aware of how petty and human she sounds.

His fingers snake below the elastic of Katy’s underwear, dragging through the coarse hair. “Isn’t it a sin to lie,” he says, not really a question so she doesn’t bother with answering, and anyway he chooses that moment to lift her thigh onto his shoulder for better access, so whatever retort she had escapes as a rough sigh. 

He doesn’t take the trouble of removing her underwear, only pulls it aside and buries his face between her thighs. He applies the same fervor to this as he does to his kisses, alternating slow teasing brushes with focused strokes that aim deeper with every caress. Castiel has held this man’s soul inside of her celestial grasp and nothing will replicate the feeling, but nothing on Earth will come closer to it than this. Dean on his knees, a mockery of supplication. His hands seeking purchase on her skin. She thinks she may be leaving marks on him with the way she’s clutching at his shoulders and wishes he could return the favor, but whatever marks he leaves remain invisible as ever.

She realizes she is making noises, involuntary sighs and moans she gave no permission to slip out. A heat is building within her, although heat is yet another inadequate descriptor. Human language continues to fail her. What she feels transcends this body, though perhaps that is how humans feel as well, brought to the brink of ecstasy. She is almost feverish with it.

“Stop thinking,” Dean admonishes. She digs the point of her heel into his back. She thinks she can feel him smile, and that more than anything snags at something deep inside of her, what a human might call their _heart_ or their _soul_ , though as an angel Castiel possesses neither of those. Whatever it is, it combusts, that same heat leaping from her skin, warmer than any hellfire.

She’s surprised she doesn’t incinerate the motel room and everything in it. As it is, it is only the lights from the ceiling fan that burst, raining glass and particles of light onto the carpet.

Dean’s chuckle pierces through the haze of pleasure fogging up her mind. Her frown achieves nothing but widening his grin. “There goes our deposit,” he says eventually, in between bouts of laughter.

It makes her want to kiss him, so she does.

The surprised huff he lets out when she pushes him down onto the floor is more than a little satisfying. She has had him at her mercy before—he always is, even when he refuses to admit it—but never like this. Never with his mouth slick from her pleasure and his chest heaving from exertion. She lets him up only for him to take off his shirt. Her eyes drink in the sight of him leaning back, from the slope of his shoulders to the slight dip of his stomach, all covered in tanned skin marred only by the sigil on his chest and Castiel’s own handprint. She has watched enough humans admire Dean to know he is desirable, but it isn’t the objective fact of Dean’s beauty which snares its teeth into her chest. It’s that she knows this body. Castiel rebuilt this man cell by cell, atom by atom, and here he is, held captive by the thighs of her human vessel.

This body which, if Heaven and Zachariah and Castiel have their way, Michael soon will ruin.

“Cas,” Dean rasps out. “Woah, hey—” It takes her a moment to realize she has pressed Dean’s wrists into the floor. The glass from the shattered lamp still litters the carpet, and in the middle of it is Dean, shards digging into his bare arms. “You gotta let me move,” he says, half as if he is calming a wild animal and half as if he is tempting said animal into biting him. His lips are parted, and she can feel him hard against her. In the dark of the room, the shadows turn his eyes nearly demon-black.

Castiel doesn’t let him go, but she heals the cuts from the glass as a concession.

“Show me,” she orders. He shifts as much as he is able to with his arms held immobile and presses his hips into hers. The fire in her simmers ever steadily, barely sated. She moves her own hips in reply, not as smooth as she would like. There is an art to this that is alien to her, but if Dean desires art he doesn’t show it, his throat bared and eyes molten. His lips part in invitation so she catches his mouth, swallowing his quickening breaths.

“Just like that,” he murmurs. His praise emboldens her. She risks releasing one of his wrists to run her hands down his chest, slowly, observing the change in his breathing when she skirts a recent scar on his side, the way it falters entirely when she presses a thumb into the groove of his hip. The skin is paler here, untouched by the sun, and there is no rational reason why that should make her chest ache, right where Katy’s heart beats double-time. She chases Dean’s encouraging noises down, in the hot space where their bodies connect, and watches him bite his lip.

“Fuck, yeah, right there.” His voice is gravelly, his breathing labored. The physical evidence of his unraveling thrills her in a way fights rarely ever do anymore, and she ventures further, prying open the button on his jeans and sliding her hand inside. That, too, makes him bite his lip, as if he is holding back words, guarding them from her. She could read his mind and he would be none the wiser, but she finds it’s more satisfying to lower her mouth to his chest and tighten her grip and hear him choke out a sound anyway, a primal wounded noise, followed by fractured half-sentences that he grinds out like a reluctant secret. A litany: Do that again, God, yeah, yeah you’re getting it, baby, don’t stop, don’t—

She kisses the words from his lips and says, “Why would I stop,” which makes him laugh again.

“Tell me,” he breathes into her skin, “tell me you feel this.” He winces at his own words, embarrassed perhaps at the naked honesty in them.

“I don’t feel,” she says. Capturing her lips again, he says, “Good, me neither,” and rolls them over, chasing his pleasure in the heat between them.

Later, after Sam has barged in on them, sounding inordinately cross for someone who was most likely indulging in demon blood that very same evening, after Castiel has slipped out into the night, Dean’s voice muffled through the door—“some chick from the bar, why the fuck do you care”—later, she feels ashamed. It is almost a relief to know that she still can, that this hasn’t entirely ruined her, though she certainly feels ruined. She is diligent in her report to Zachariah, more deferential than she has been in months, and thinks of Anna, who had always inspired Castiel’s most profound respect, right up until she turned her back on her family and Fell.

Later, in Heaven, Castiel spreads her wings and fails not to miss the thin leather jacket of a pastor’s daughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](queennsansa.tumblr.com).


End file.
